Blind Man's Bluff
by adamsforthought
Summary: A modern Anna-Bates AU, based on a prompt by Terrie. The last thing John Bates, the botanist, remembers studying before losing his sight in the jungle is a photograph of an unknown, beautiful woman that he cannot seem to forget.
1. Accidents

_I told Terrie I couldn't think of anything for her latest Banna Weekend Challenge, but then inspiration(?) struck. I enjoy twists on familiar stories/tropes, and I hope you do, as well. This is a Modern Banna AU fic, exactly 500 words just because._

_I'd just post it on Tumblr, but I thought I'd post here as sort of an apology to my few but lovely non-Tumblr readers, who probably don't know that I just started (law) school and haven't been able to find the time for an update! Also, sorry for the relatively unedited nature of this. (See: Law school.)_

* * *

He remembers her smile, her gaze, her hair, and even the unnaturally sharp angle of her elbow, raised and bent just out of sight. She looks confident; easily but not frivolously entertained; beautiful.

He found the photo in the jungle of a botanist's – his – dream, unnervingly out of place.

It is also there in the jungle that he found the snake – just a flash of color – and its venom. Her face is the last thing he studied in detail, peering at this curious discovery among the plants. If he had known then –

But it's no use hypothesizing. Twenty years of a carefully-built career disappears into a black vacuum, along with his sight.

He can hear the people scurrying away from his cane, nervous and pitiful (some jeer instead), and he feels his jaw clench tighter and tighter over time. His once-boyish cheeks sink inwards, and gravity pulls them downwards. And still he refuses all charity, even from his former comrade and only friend (that rich old bastard with a golden heart). But his bank account cannot support his fierce pride any longer. A solution must be found.

Sometimes, he ponders the darkest of solutions.

Mostly, though, he tries to push such thoughts away; in their stead, his thoughts often turn to the woman in the photograph. What was she so amused by? And her gaze – that direct, unflinching gaze – he wonders if he would feel it, if a gaze as powerful as hers were to settle on him directly. Even now, just from his memory, he can feel it boring into his mind.

He finds himself wondering if he has ever encountered her – if, for example, she is a guest seated at the next table over – but of course, he could never recognize her anyway.

With a sigh, he heaves himself out of the seat and heads for the door. Even in the bustling, hectic diner, he can feel the waiters and customers swerving out of his way. That suits him fine. He appreciates the distance between himself and everyone else. For a moment, he even feels powerful, like Moses parting the seas.

But then something – a boot? – collides into his leg, and he crumples to the ground, powerless and broken.

For a moment, he cannot gather the strength to stand, to fight. He can hear the derision and pity from the others. He wants none of this. Again, the dark thoughts return, unbidden but not unwelcome.

Suddenly, small hands, unusually strong, grip his arms. "Are you all right?" Without hesitation, without fear of his unyielding bulk, the two hands pull him back onto his feet.

He can hear the silence around him – feel the stares fixed on him.

Her hands linger on his, comforting and firm. Her resolute strength shames him, and he pushes her away. "Please," he says, more harshly than is necessary, "Don't pity me."

Wordlessly, she returns his cane back to his grasp. Then, with a curt nod, he nods in her direction and walks away.


	2. Her Name

**A/N: Oops, I accidentally set the story in America without thinking. I was hoping to wrap it up with a second chapter, but maybe I'll get around to a third one and make it a complete trio at some point...? Sorry for the lack of commitment here - school is keeping me very busy!  
**

* * *

He now has one week, less than a hundred dollars, and no plan. He clutches the eviction notice in his hand, finally forcing his mind through the possible options.

His mother lives across the ocean, anxious for news – but he cannot bring himself to pick up the phone and inform her of her son's utter failure. And as for Robert, with his full belly and bleeding heart –

His thoughts swirl around in his head, desperation and despair battling the last remaining remnants of his pride. If only he could disappear, quietly and without leaving behind a single mark…

Footsteps draw near, echoing against the cold, soaring columns of the cathedral and startling him out of his thoughts. He's not sure why he is here at all – he has never entered a church since his father's suicide – but he is at least thankful for the opportunity to rest his legs, weary from hours of aimless wandering. In fact, he is not sure if he will ever have the strength to get up from his seat again.

The footsteps stop just a yard shy of him, hesitant. "May I sit by you?"

He can't be sure, but he recognizes the voice, with its distinctive lilt and tone. It's the woman who helped him at the diner, he thinks, whose hands he pushed away too roughly. He feels a pang of guilt.

"Of course."

She sits next to him, and then stills. Not a word is spoken, and neither budges an inch.

He can feel her presence, however, and it gnaws at him until it occupies him entirely. Is she waiting for him to speak, stubbornly waiting for an apology from him? Or is she simply praying, as one often does in a church, and would prefer not to be disturbed? He imagines he can feel her gaze on him, shamelessly taking advantage of his inability to know for certain – or perhaps she is, like so many others, simply using this short resting period to check her phone.

Suddenly, it occurs to him that he has not had a proper conversation with someone in weeks. He wonders if he has already lost the art of conversation entirely.

She stirs. "What's that in your hand?"

For an instant, he considers crumpling up the notice in his hand, hiding it from view. But he tilts it towards her instead. "They've given me one week to move out."

She does not respond right away. He wonders if he has completely overstepped his bounds, burdening a polite stranger with a heavy truth.

"I'm ever so sorry," she finally says.

"I'll be all right," he quickly replies in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. "Something will turn up." Strange, that he should feel the need to comfort her – but he does feel it, nonetheless.

Her next words are unexpected. "Could I borrow your cellphone?"

He detects a new buoyancy in her voice, which throws him off even further. He hands her his phone. "It's quite loud," he warns her.

"That's fine," she says. As she types, the phone announces each key pressed. Quickly, and almost instinctively, he commits the ten digits to memory.

Then he hears his phone announce each letter of her name. _A-n-n-a S-m-i-t-h._ He is a little disappointed at the plain nature of the name – he had expected something more elegant, unique. Still, his heart pounding, he carves the memory into his mind as well.

"I can help you, if you'd let me," she says, handing the phone back to its owner. "I'm a social worker."

His heart sinks. Another bleeding heart – another pity case for the social worker.

As if sensing his sudden withdrawal, she sounds more hesitant. "Will you at least let me know when you've settled somewhere?" Then, in a softer voice, she adds, "Else I'll worry."

He smiles, but it does not come easily. "Well, we can't have that."

There is a hint of bitter sarcasm there, and he regrets it immediately. Hastily, he searches for a way to recover. "I'm John Bates," he offers, as though revealing his name might atone for his momentary rudeness.

Unconsciously, he holds his breath for her response.

"I'm Anna. Anna Smith."

This time, her name sounds beautiful to his ears.


	3. A Promise

**A/N: **_I'd like to thank Awesomegreentie, the second pair of eyes that always so willingly aids my own legally blind eyes... I'd also like to thank Mellowmom/Gilroy, for her insights! Again, I apologize for the irregular updates - I'm afraid school has been keeping me stressed and busy. I can't seem to wrap up this (should've-kept-it-a-one-shot) fic as quickly as I'd expected. This chapter is sort of a calming interlude and a necessary bridge...  
_

* * *

Robert's money is burning a hole in his pocket, still smoldering from the ashes of the dignity he has sacrificed. _My dear fellow, _his friend had exclaimed, in a strangled mix of pity and horror, _if there's _anything_ I can do…_

He insisted on it being a loan. But he has no confidence in his ability to pay it back – his future seems more impossibly opaque than his sight.

"I was hoping you'd call," she says, breaking the train of his thoughts. He tries to read her tone, even as he chastises himself for it – he is too keenly aware of what he longs to discover there, even as he dreads hearing pity, or duty. Again, he wonders why she is here with him.

"I've bought myself some time," he replies. "I thought you'd like to know." But it's only an excuse, a shield thrown up to conceal the other reasons for his phone call – or rather, why he could not help but call.

"Thank you. I did worry."

He basks in the bright smile within her words, his bleak future banished from his mind as he forces himself to focus on this moment. He can sense every breath she releases, and the way the fabric of her dress brushes against his when the wind rustles it. He takes it all in, begging his mind to remember every detail.

She shifts, and the bench under them creaks. They are in the public botanical gardens, his old haunt. "I've never been here before. It's so peaceful, and so…" she trails off uneasily.

He makes a guess. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

In the brief silence, he can sense her hesitation. Above them, the leaves whisper.

"This weeping willow," he says, gesturing above them. "Isn't she stunning?"

There is another pause, but this time, he gives her time to adjust, to respond.

"Yes, it is," she agrees with tentative enthusiasm.

He breathes in deeply, filling his lungs with familiar scents he can instantly identify even now. "She's an old friend," he says, and leaves it at that. He is unexpectedly hit by a profound longing for his old life – but there is also a strange, unfamiliar sensation of contentedness. This is the world he once belonged to – and he can feel it welcoming him, enveloping him in warmth and excitement.

It _is _beautiful here. He wants her to know – he doesn't need eyes to sense it.

"I hope you haven't made plans for lunch," she says suddenly. "I thought we could make a day of it here." She pauses. "I've packed us a picnic."

He feels a thrill rush through his veins. "No, I haven't any plans – and I've never been so glad of it." He chuckles lightly, a foreign sound even to his ears.

She laughs along. "Good." He listens as she cracks her basket open, drawing things out one by one. "I've made us some sandwiches, and… here."

He holds out a hand, and she places a smooth, solid object in it. He can smell it in the air – the crisp scent of an apple. He smiles again. "Have you got anything to drink?"

Bottles and cups clink together as she fishes something out. "Well, Mr. Bates—" he can hear a playful grin "—I thought a glass of cider just might hit the spot."

He raises an eyebrow, reveling in the new playful atmosphere between them. "Day drinking in a public park? That's quite improper of you."

"Yes," she says with a giggle, "I am, quite."

He's fallen in love with the sound of her smile – but he can never let her know.

She places a full cup in his grasp, and he recalls the touch of her hand from their first meeting. "What shall we drink to?" he asks.

"To your future," she says immediately, nothing but hope and cheer in her voice.

He falters, then tries to hide it – but he's too late.

"I mean it," she says solemnly. "I'll help you, Mr. Bates, if you let me. We'll figure it out together. I promise."

He shouldn't agree – he should not dare to hope. But he does dare, and he drinks to her promise.


	4. Caving In

**Author's Note:**_ I am so sorry for the delay. I didn't have as much free time as I had hoped this summer, but I promise I haven't forgotten about my unfinished pieces. I will try to have another chapter in the next couple of weeks. Big thanks to my beta, Awesomegreentie, who is much better at balancing a busy work/personal life and her fangirl life than I am! And thanks to those who have encouraged me in writing this update. You know who you are._

* * *

He shouldn't have drunk the cider. He should not have allowed himself the pleasure.

It's not the cider itself. Cider is too sweet, sickly even – but its hint of a bitter bite teases him, nipping at his heels. The taste brings along stronger memories: the wine at his mother's table, pints of beer raised to the last of his student days, Robert's collection of fine Scotch, shots of tequila with comrades (the ones that remained intact, in the memory of those who were not), the clanking bottles of vodka echoing in his apartment. They are impossible to shake off.

No – he does know one way to chase it all away.

He slaps down a bill on the counter. He is crumbling inside, imagining the curious looks of the young man counting out the change, both knowing what comes next; but he cannot stop. Every moment of existence is unbearable otherwise.

He grabs the rough plastic bag by its handles – he knows it's black, so prominently dark that it flaunts rather than conceals its contents – and he hears the unmistakable clinking sound. Awash with shame, he rushes out to the streets, then to his apartment.

The door slams behind him. Now he is all alone, with no one to gawk; his cheeks burn, his legs tremble, and his stomach tightens – but his grip on the bag is firm, full of purpose.

That night, he sinks deep, deeper, and then deeper still – it's agony at first, and for a very long time.

But then comes nothing – the bliss.

* * *

She should have asked him to meet again, before they parted ways.

Now she is at a loss. Her calendar feels bare and despondent, though she could easily fill it up with meaningless meals, coffees, and drinks – all at clean, well-lighted places where she can watch and wonder about the people who walk by.

(But no, that's not fair to her friends, whom she does like after all. She's only being melodramatic – pouting, like a child, because there's only one name she wants to pencil in.)

She waits out two days, hopeful yet fearful. Instinct tells her that this man is a wounded animal in the wild – weakened, but not weak by nature; wary of anyone and everything; just barely within reach, but a moment from springing away.

He is endlessly and irresistibly fascinating, and like a hiker in the woods, she cannot force herself to turn away from the suffering creature. She watches as he struggles, valiant and foolish in his solitude. There are traps that lay ahead, pitfalls she already knows; but what she doesn't know is how to convey it all to him, in a language he would understand.

On the third day, she dials his number – and more times than she cares to admit. The phone rings – telling her that he is at least alive, or so she prays – but his voice never cuts off that harsh, jarring noise in her ear.

She hangs up, finally, with a sigh. He feels further away than ever before.

The sun is setting, lingering for one last peek of the cityscape. She has yet to turn on her lights. So she turns to her window to enjoy the scenery, seeking solace in its serenity.

The ambulance arrives fifteen minutes later.


	5. The Window

**A/N: **_This doesn't quite resolve the cliffhanger I left you on, but I hope it gives you some insights nevertheless. Thank you, Awesomegreentie, for your sharp eye and wonderful friendship! And of course, thanks to those who have let yourselves become at least a little invested in this story. You've pushed me on to do a quicker update than usual._

* * *

_Two months ago…_

Everything is unpacked – almost. The bedding is laid out, the kitchen equipped and hungry for food, and her brother's photo beams at her from the wall.

She is hanging up her curtains when she finally notices the other window. The building juts out, just outside her own window, and she can look into another adjacent apartment, just a yard away.

Suddenly feeling exposed, she quickly finishes the curtains and turns away with a huff. And she was so thorough, she thought, checking for leaky faucets, sagging ceilings, history of bed bugs, and everything else she was supposed to check. But now some stranger has visual access to her entire (tiny) studio apartment, and everything is ruined.

She takes a shaky breath, then releases it in a steady sigh. No, not ruined – but she does feel disappointed. Disappointed, and also anxious; the solitude she both feared and wanted is now gone, thanks to whoever lives in that apartment (it could be _anyone_). She reminds herself that she lives in a big city now, and there is no escape from the fact that everyone is packed into these buildings like sardines.

Feeling more resigned, she peeks over again. She can only see a small alcove of the other apartment, with two moderately-filled bookshelves lining the wall and a comfortable, burgundy armchair keeping them company. Now she wonders if she will be intruding upon a stranger's own secluded nook, a corner someone has carved out as his or her safe haven.

But throughout the next few days, she never sees anyone in the other apartment – and the light usually stays off. The inhabitants are rarely there, she begins to think, and relaxes. She stops drawing the curtains shut every time she leaves her apartment or feels too exposed. She glances at it, every now and then, but it's less of a nuisance now, and more of a curiosity.

Then comes one of those nights.

She returns late, exhausted from a full day at work that spilled over into drinks with her co-workers. They are all tired – of the work, the people, the paperwork, the city.

Her apartment is dark, and quiet. She can see the city outside, but the noises below are barely audible – and for the first time, her apartment feels like a sanctuary. Home.

She sees movement. It's from the other window, the adjacent apartment. A flash of irritation strikes, at the interruption of her single serene moment of the day, but her curiosity drives her to the window.

A man sits in the chair, reading. She shouldn't judge by appearances – and yet, she feels herself relax again. He seems gentle, and tired; he has no sharp edges – life has rounded and broadened his figure into friendlier, gentler lines. She imagines there was once quite a lot of power in him – a mastery of the world around him, a self-possessed confidence – and that it has been beaten out of him by the world. She can't say how or why she feels all of this. But he is, somehow, a comforting sight.

He sighs, rubbing his closed eyes and sinking further into his chair. She can feel his weariness; or perhaps it's her own, magnified in his presence. Whatever it might be, she feels tied to him by this one common thread – a fellow inhabitant of this city, fatigued and alone.

A dusty, deflated, and forgotten soccer ball, rolling halfheartedly down a concrete street –this sudden image springs to her mind, an entirely unremarkable memory from her childhood.

It occurs to her that he might look up and spot her at any moment – that she might break the spell of serenity for _him_. She is about to step back, out of sight and out of his world, when she notices his cane – and the blank, aimless way he stares at the book.

An idea occurs to her, and she lingers.

He is staring at the book, but his eyes remain fixed. After a moment, he shuts the book and seemingly studies its cover, his fingers roaming over its smooth texture. There is deep poignancy in the gesture, a sense of hopelessness, and she is increasingly certain of her suspicions.

Carefully, he feels along the top of the book until his fingers settle on a bookmark, and he lets the book fall open at that spot. But this time, it's the bookmark that he's interested in; he takes it in his hand – a small piece of paper, the size of his palm – and studies it carefully. This time, he moves his fingers in a more deliberate fashion, so much so that she's unsure again; his fingers trace a specific shape she cannot quite figure out, sadly and thoughtfully, and without being able to see the front of the paper itself, she has no way of knowing whether he is drawing from memory or vision.

But then he puts the paper away, tucked away in the book – and from the way he feels around for the bookshelf, she knows.


End file.
